Shanshu
by DragonyPhoenix
Summary: Spike shanshu's because of his sacrifice in "Chosen.
1. Love's Bitch

The house was quiet, finally. All it had taken, to get the quiet, was staying up until three AM. Buffy sat alone on the couch. The lights were on around her. They'd found rooms for everyone – Willow, Xander, Giles, the girls, even Spike – so she wasn't keeping anyone up. Plus she didn't like the dark so much anymore.

When Spike walked in, she turned her head away but then turned it back, staring forward and not at him. She knew she wasn't being fair but the way he'd looked at her, in the basement, after they'd saved Xander … She wasn't being fair. Spike had told her he loved her, but she hadn't believed it until that night, the way he'd looked at her, the way he'd reached out to her before she'd startled away. And she saw how he'd looked after, that hurt look, the same one he was giving her now.

"Did anybody tell you about what happened around here tonight?" he asked.

"Willow did," she replied. "The First is back in the mix."

"It, uh, it talked to the little boy. Said it wasn't time for me yet." He turned to look as if seeking her approval. "I should move out. Leave town before it is time for me."

Her life would be so much easier if he left. "No, you have to stay."

"You've got another demon fighter now."

Another? Oh, he meant Wood. She couldn't talk about his feelings, not now. "This is going to be bad, worse than anyone else knows. I need all my fighters."

"Some of us are lovers, not fighters, pet. Well, no, I'm definitely a fighter."

"Best one I've got." He looked pleased at that.

"But, luv." He took her hand in his.

She pulled her hand away. "I don't want you, Spike. I don't love you. With what the First is doing to you, I'm not sure I can even trust you. But I do need you."

"Because I can fight?"

"Yes."

"And nothing more?"

"Nothing more," she whispered. "If you can't deal with that, then go."

"Right." He stood. Oh shit, he was leaving. Maybe that was for the best. Maybe he'd survive after the First had destroyed them all. "Night then."

She waited until the basement door closed behind him. "Night." It would have been easier if he'd left, but she needed all her fighters. It was good that he'd stayed. Maybe if she kept telling herself that, she'd believe it.


	2. Chapter 2

Buffy'd had that preacher under control. There'd been no need for Angel to step in. Honestly, what the bloody hell did he think he was doing? And the kiss … well, there'd been no need for that. Spike could have yelled out a warning before the preacher smashed a statue into Angel's head. He didn't. The git deserved it for showing up at the last minute when he wasn't wanted. 'Course Angel did miss the whole fight. That was almost worth the price of admission.

"OK, now I'm pissed. Where is he?"

Buffy looked at the two halves of the preacher and giggled. "He had to split."

The First, posing as Buffy, whispered in Spike's ear. "Yeah, she needs you real bad."

"As a matter of fact, I believe she does." Spike stepped out from the shadows and lit a cigarette. "Slayer." He blew the smoke in Angel's face. "Ponce."

"Spike, what are you doing here?" And damn but that brooder could whine.

Spike nodded toward Buffy. "Watching her back. What about you Mr. Johnny-come-after-the-nick-of-time?"

"I have info." Angel nodded toward the manila envelope. "And this." He pulled out an amulet, a 2-inch diameter round crystal pendant in a silver starburst setting hung from a coarse silver chain. Gods but it was gaudy.

"Nice. Very tasteful."

"Spike." Buffy's voice had a snap to it. "Play nice."

"Yeah, Spike," Angel smirked. "Play nice."

"What is it?" Buffy asked Angel. Of course she didn't bother to admonish him.

"I don't know everything. It's very powerful and probably very dangerous. It has a purifying power, a cleansing power, possibly scrubbing bubbles. The translation is, uh—anyway, it bestows strength to the right person who wears it."

"And the right person is?"

"Someone ensouled, but stronger than human. A champion. As in me."

"Or me," Buffy replied.

"Or me," Spike added. Buffy and Angel both turned and stared. "What?"

"Not you."

Spike could see the doubt in Angel's eyes. He wanted to impress the girl, yeah, but the amulet was dangerous – who knew what it'd do – and Angel wanted to be around after he'd impressed the girl. "Buffy, give us a minute pet."

"Give you a minute?"

"We don't need a minute," Angel said. "I'm wearing it and that's that."

"Be a good girl," Spike added. "Run along."

Buffy's knuckles whitened on the Scythe. "Right. I'll be at home because I have an apocalypse to prevent. If you two kill each other I'll kick your asses from here to eternity."

"Buffy," Angel called out.

She turned at the door. "You two talk. Work out this … whatever." And then she was gone.

"What was that?" Angel asked.

"She doesn't want you to wear it," Spike told him.

"What? Buffy? Yes she does." Angel did not look amused.

"The amulet, you said it's dangerous."

"Yeah, and I'm her champion."

"She doesn't want a dead champion."

Angel's eyes shifted at that. "There's nothing to say I'll end up dead."

"Five'll get you ten the person wearing that ends up dead, well, deader."

"You want her. That's what this is, isn't it? Well she kissed me."

"Yeah, yeah, saw the tongues."

"You think you can wear the amulet, be the champion, and get the girl." Damn but Angel had a one track mind.

Spike dropped his cigarette to the floor. "You don't get it. This isn't about you or me. This is about Buffy, about what she needs. And after this is all over? She's gonna need you as in you're not a pile of ashes swirling in the wind." Spike plucked the amulet from Angel's hand. "I'm seeing she gets what she needs."


	3. Chapter 3

Stumbling backwards, Spike felt a warmth on his chest, just a bit above his heart. He grabbed the amulet but dropped it again. His hand was burned where he'd touched the pendant. "Buffy!"

"Spike?"

He froze as a blue light shot out from the amulet, punching a hole through the stone, through the high-school, and up to the sky. Orange light shot back down, into the amulet, and then out into the cavern, dusting Turok-Han. The ground started shaking as Buffy ran up.

"I can feel it, Buffy."

"What?"

"My soul. It's really there. Kind of stings."

She wasn't moving. The cavern was crashing in around them and she wasn't moving. "Go on, then."

"No. No, you've done enough. You could still …"

"No, you've beat them back. It's for me to do the cleanup."

Angel called out from the stairway. "Buffy, come on!"

Buffy looked up to Angel and then back to Spike. "I …"

"Go on."

Buffy ran, almost on Angel's heels as they raced up the stairs.

The heat was getting worse. Spike wasn't sure how much longer he could stand it. He'd always been wild, reckless, practically a kamikaze about some things. Never thought he'd last this long. Never thought he'd go out on the side of the white hats, but he'd always been love's bitch, always doing stupid … Shit that hurt. Wouldn't be long now. Wouldn't be long …


	4. Ballad of the Blooming Onion

Catching sight of Morgan through the wide windows of the cafe, Will turned his attention back to the interior of The Sunflower. It was a mistake. The pale green walls, decorated with a banner of sunflowers, created a cheerful environment that Will, seemingly by instinct, found contrary to a poetry venue. Expecting dingy walls and smoke-filled rooms, Will had learned long ago to stare out the window until his subconscious caught up with the bright and outgoing reality of the space.

Will, startled by the disjoint between what he expected and what he saw, didn't move quickly enough. Morgan stepped through the doorway and slapped Will on the shoulder. "So what can we look forward to tonight. A paean to a hamburger? A sestina on the virtues of Coca Cola? An ode to french fries?"

Morgan, with a cowlick he couldn't keep down, heavy framed glasses, rumpled t-shirt – something called Mothra this week – jeans and sneakers looked, to Will, more of a nerd than a poet. Will kept the supposed discrepancy to himself. His friends had told him, many times in Jess' case, that he was too formal. Good manners eased awkward situations like grease eased a squeaking wheel, but his friends, indeed almost everyone he knew, didn't seem to mind awkwardness. Some seemed to revel in it.

"Hey, I brought food boy with." Morgan flopped down into a chair while Will nodded at the two ladies. Jess, the more outgoing of the sisters, raised an almost empty beer in welcome while Ash grinned back with an accepting smirk. When he'd first found, or more likely rediscovered, poetry, what he'd seen as little more than common courtesy had been seen as a mockery of manners to those around him. They'd been shocked to discover he hadn't meant to appear satirical and Ash had worked with him for weeks to tone down his presentation. Ash was still amused by the remnants of formality that he couldn't quite make himself do without. Blooming onions were a delight to prepare, even after four years. Morgan, jaded buffoon that he was, had no joie de vivre. Worse, he resented anyone who did.

Chopping onions, eyes sting as if splashed with Holy Water. Granted it was an odd metaphor, one that Will didn't quite understand although it had been a hit with the poetry crowd. Carol had raved and rambled on and ended up talking about sex and death but she did that with everything so Will wasn't sure that said much. Still it hadn't been a bad poem. Morgan was a poophead though for bringing it up. As he returned to the table, Will grinned at the thought. He doubted he'd every say anything like it in public, but in the privacy of his own mind the mild vulgarity did amuse.

The evening went as they usually did. None of the poetry was brilliant but some was good enough. Some was downright awful and to make it worse Morgan blamed Will for Buzzcut's rendition of "I hate the horrid toilet bowl."

"You opened that door with your cooking the blooming onion poem."

Will had felt the blush spreading across his cheeks. "I certainly didn't expect anyone to write about that!"

Another poem Will as never going to live down and this one wasn't even his. Closing time came as a relief. "We're fine to get home on our own," Jess had announced, forestalling Will's offer of an escort. He'd lost count of how many times it had been explained to him: women power, independence, no pedestal. He understood his offer was unwelcome but it felt wrong to allow two ladies of his acquaintance to walk home alone.

Blue and red lights flashed from across the street. "What are the badges up to, then?"

"The what?" Jess asked.

Badges, Will thought. Coppers. Pigs. Policemen. Officers of the law. His mind did this occasionally, came up with unexpected and coarse associations. It had led him, more than once, to wonder what sort of man he'd been before he'd lost his memories.

There was a man, arms handcuffed behind his back, being led to a police car. He had an eyepatch. Will noticed that right off, then the dark hair. The man stared straight at him. "Spike?"


	5. In the Jailhouse Now

**Note**: Written for a prompt at Taming the Muse: elevate

**Note**: I found a definition of elevate that means to rob. browse/elevate?s=t

From the top of the three steps, as Will glanced down at the crowd bursting out from the sidewalk into the street, a flash of something that must be a memory showed him another scene, an even denser crowd, teens mostly, and his brain supplied a phrase: mosh pit. And then he was back, returned from that not-memory, standing slightly above the crowd and staring at the man who'd called him Spike. "Fuck it." He shoved through the crowd, ready to let his elbows fly – and where had he learned that trick? – but tricks apparently picked up in a mosh pit weren't needed here. The crowd wasn't as dense as he kept thinking it was. Even so, by the time he cleared the crowd, the tira (police car, Mexican slang) had pulled away.

As Will stared at the retreating car and wondered why he thought he could catch it if he ran after, a voice called from behind him. "Will?"

Ash was standing a good ten feet away and he wasn't sure if it was simple prudence or if she was mocking him. The first time she'd snuck up on him, well, there'd been a bloody nose and his hand had ached for two days.

"He knew me."

She stepped closer and stared down the street where he'd been staring but she wasn't looking for a car. She was scanning people. "Who?"

"Some guy. Didn't recognize him but I wouldn't, would I? Fuzz dragged him away."

Morgan and Jess, having made their way more sedately through the crowd, caught up. "What's going on?"

"Some felon recognized Will."

"Thank you, Ash." He didn't mean to snap but nobody had known him, not for six years.

Morgan didn't seem to get it, but Jess caught on. "Recognized as in from before your amnesia?"

"Looks like," Will said.

"What'd'ya mean, felon?" Morgan asked.

"The police took him away, or at least that's what Will told me," Ash replied.

"Might not mean anything," Will said. "People get picked up for all kinds of things. Could have been mistaken identity."

"Hey," Morgan shouted out. "Anybody got info on that guy hauled away by the cops?"

It caught the attention of a half-dozen suited youngsters. "Killed somebody, man."

"No way, it was a fight but nobody died."

"I think he was a pimp. I saw a couple of girls hightailing it out of here."

"Bloody wonderful." Will shook his head. "He couldn't have just elevated a pub."

"Will," Jess said. "English please."

"That was English."

"_Elevated_ a pub?" she asked.

"Robbed?" he replied. Lovely, another bit of felon slang only he was familiar with.

"So, what are you going to do?" Ash asked.

"Try to find him, I guess."

"Won't do you any good," Morgan said. "He's being processed. We're way past visiting hours at the jail."

"Come hang with us," Ash offered. "Give yourself a chance to wind down before heading home."

"Thanks, but no."

"Will, much as I hate to admit that my sister is right, this is big. You sure you don't want company. You sure you want to cog this on your own?"

Will gave her a wry grin. "Won't be on my own."

"Where are you?" Ash started. Then she caught on. "Millay? Are you sure?"

"She'll be up," Will said with a shrug.

"And she can hack into the PD's system," Jess added.

Morgan snorted. "She probably already has."

"LAPD? I bet she hacks their system as a warm-up."

"Was counting on that," Will replied.


	6. Hacking

The building had been abandoned. Will had seen pictures of gutted rooms and windows nailed shut with wood planks, but that had been thirty years ago. Now the wooden floors were smooth, the handrails stained to a dark cherry color, and the entryway was covered, floor to ceiling, with mosaics. To Will's left, women dark of skin and hair, wearing brightly colored shawls, gathered lilies – the flowers towering over them. To his right, men plowed the living earth, not with trucks or oxen, but with the strength of their own limbs. Above the sun danced with the moon in a pale blue sky.

Inside the entryway, in the open space at the bottom of the stairs and before the elevators, the old man waited for him. On his black t-shirt, the words Agnostic Front Skinhead circled around a pair of kick-ass boots. Everyone called him Webb although Will, asking around, had been told his Christian name was John. Webb had been one of the original tenants, part of the group that had reclaimed the abandoned building back in the 80's.

While Millay and her friends claimed Webb didn't spend all his time in the foyer, every time Will stopped by, there he was, standing at the base of the stairs, smoking a cig. "Buckets of Blood, man."

"I beg your pardon?" Will had tried ignoring the man, but Webb continued to speak to him. Eventually it had just seemed rude to ignore someone who was so persistent.

"Buckets of Blood, showing on the home screen. You in?"

"Thank you, but I have business … I'm here to see Millay."

Rather than waiting for the elevator with Webb standing right there, Will took the stairs up to the seventh floor. Vines of ivy, painted on the walls, led his way. He rapped on the door, drumming out a quick rat a tat tat. Millay's skin, pale for California, back-lit by the bluish glow of her computer terminal, glimmered with an almost unnatural sheen. As usual she seemed to have run her fingers through her ash-blonde hair in lieu of using a brush. Will, who hadn't been expecting her to answer so quickly, let his hand drop to his side. Most nights she was so hooked into the Net that he'd have it'd take a good five or ten minutes of banging for her to come around.

"Morgan called," she said, answering his unasked question.

Morgan? "What'd he tell you?" Bugger, the ass was probably having a field day with this piece of news.

"That there's someone who knew you from before."

"That's it?"

"And that you want info on him, but I could have worked that part bit out for myself."

"Thanks." He knew she'd help but that she'd put aside her daily hacking routine to make time? He hadn't quite expected that.

"Hey, it's a big deal, knowing who you are, being rooted in your past. So, tell. What do I have to work with?"

"Outside The Sunflower, about forty-five minute ago. Hauled in by the fuzz. Dark hair, about my height maybe, eyepatch. Sort of hard to miss."

She'd shown him a bit about computers, while they were still an item, but his hunt and peck method with the keyboard had driven her up the wall. It was a mystery to him, how her fingers could fly so and still hit the right keys. "Here he is. Alexander LaVelle Harris." It was him alright. Will ignored the text on the screen for the picture.

"That was quick." He could feel himself grinning at her. Smart women, they got to him every time.

"Oooh, you do know how to pick 'em."

"What's that?"

"Picked up for suspected assault. Your old buds seem rather sordid."

Yeah, it wasn't as encouraging as it could be. "When can I get in to see him?"

"You can't."

"Can't? But I've never found anyone else who knows whom I used to be."

She waved a hand at him. "I know, I know, but he's already out. Somebody must have woken up a judge to get him out at this time of night. No, wait." Dark words danced across the screen like spiders. "Ha! It's another hacker. Damned good too. Took advantage of a discrepancy in the reports: no body. This'll take a while. You gonna stay?"

"Hell, yeah." Racks of computers filled the room. Will had never understood why she needed more than one but had learned not to ask. He sat down on the floor, knees raised to chest, and waited to see what Millay's searching would find.


	7. Ream Swag

The arrhythmic clacking coming from Millay's keyboard was somehow soothing.A search-and-rescue crew had found Will outside of the sinkhole that had once been a California town. His bluejeans had held a wallet and papers identifying him as William Pratt, a naturalized citizen. If Charlie, one of the gentlemen who'd found him hadn't taken pity and given him a home, Will didn't know where he might have ended up. He'd been surprised to find himself living with a woman. At first he'd thought Millay must have been married to either Charlie or the roommate Dave but she had her own bedroom and, in fact, had turned out to be Charlie's cousin. Will had discovered himself, learned his own interests and habits, with the sound of Millay's clattering keyboard as background music. To this day the sound of a keyboard made him feel safe, comfortable, at home.

He didn't quite doze off but he also wasn't completely awake when he heard Millay speak. "Well, isn't this interesting."

There was a bio of one Alexander LaVelle Harris spread out across the computer screen. The picture matched the guy he's seen being hauled off by a pair of coppers. Nothing leapt out as important. "What?"

Millay pointed to a line of text. "He comes from Sunnydale."

Sunnydale. "Shit." When Millay raised an eyebrow in inquiry, Will elaborated."Found him, someone who knows me that is, and lost him all in one night."

"Your luck does seem to be running bad."

"What else does it say?"

Millay's finger skimmed over a couple of lines. "After Sunnydale collapsed, he spent two years in Africa. There's not much data from that period. He used his credit card intermittently, as in months apart between purchases."

That didn't sound good. "He was deliberately not leaving a trail."

"Looks like."

Will turned away from the screens. "So after five years the first guy who knows me is dragged off by the cops like a back alley barber and has spent two years doing something highly illegal in Africa."

"Back alley barber?"

Will drew his finger across his throat.

"Ah, Sweeney Todd," she said, nodding her understanding. "There was no body."

"There were some girls. Maybe they carried it off."

"Unlikely," Millay said. "A couple of girls carting off a corpse during happy hour? Even if they could carry it, someone would have seen them."

"Anything else?"

"Going by his credit card, he's staying at a Marriott."

"You know where he is?"

She nodded. "Street cameras have him entering the hotel about an hour ago. The question is do you want to meet him?"

He did, but he didn't. The few glimmers of messages from his past-self were mixed. When he'd been found he'd been wearing jeans and a black t-shirt but it had been months before he'd felt even remotely comfortable in such casual attire. His almost fluorescent hair had seemed terribly unnatural and, indeed, he'd been relieved when his natural color began to reveal itself. He preferred a level of formality that almost seemed out of time and yet he knew slang, criminal words, not just in English but from languages from around the world and also not just current but going back over a hundred years. That last bit had given him hope. Perhaps he'd been a professor or a researcher of some sort. That seemed unlikely given what they'd learned about this Mr. Harris. Could he live without ever knowing whom he'd been? "You have no idea what it's like, not knowing who you are."

"That's a yes then."

He was surprised to realize it was a yes.

She held up something small and metallic. "You're not going in alone."

He thought about action movies and what happened to men caught wearing wires. "I'm not sure that's wise."

"You going to arrange to meet him someplace public?"

God but that was a good idea. "I can't guarantee it."

"Then I'm listening in."

He nodded his acceptance. "I should get going then."

"Will, it's four in the morning. Normal people aren't up at this hour."

"But he's not, is he, normal that is. Besides, with the crushers on the know, he might just lavender off. If I don't catch him now, I might miss him."

As she handed him the bug, Millay blinked at him as if processing what he'd said. Will reviewed his words. Oh. Crusher. Lavender. British slang. 19th century. Very lower class.

Time and past time to find out who he'd been.


	8. Cruel Game

"Honesty is the cruelest game of all, because not only can you hurt someone – and hurt them to the bone – you can feel self-righteous about it at the same time" – Dave Van Ronk (American folk and blues Singer, Guitarist and Song Writer, 1936-2002)

Golden light, spilling out through the glass walls of the Marriott, looked like hope. Will walked past, to where the light turned blue, and then crossed over to a darkened street. What had he been thinking? They weren't about to let him in, not at this hour, not without calling up first. And then what? Harris might bugger off. Hell, for all Will knew, Harris might call the boys in blue. Will couldn't risk it. They had to meet, face-to-face, tonight, before he lost this chance forever.

Will turned and looked back toward the hotel. He'd have as much luck forcing his way into an armed fortress as he'd have sneaking in there. The doors, those that were locked, were alarmed, and all the entrances were watched through security cameras. If he tried to storm the gates, they'd send him packing; if he tried to sneak in, they'd catch him and cart him off. What he needed was a distraction. All he had was himself.

His cell started playing in his back pocket. Oh yeah, sneaking into this place, that would have worked. He couldn't even remember to turn off the damn phone. It was the ringtone Millay, who'd set up his phone for him, had picked for herself. The lyrics seemed to be some sort of computer in-joke. "Hello. I know that you're unhappy. I bring you love and deeper understanding."

Will waved toward the security feed as he answered. "Yeah?"

"Give it a couple more minutes."

He raised one eyebrow and waited.

"No need to thank me. Here it comes in three, two, one."

Will felt a whoosh of speed like wind bursting past to either side and then a girl before him leapt up as her skateboard flipped into the air. She landed on the ground, grabbing the skate in one hand. She was a little thing, so scrawny Will would have thought she hadn't eaten in a week if he didn't know her. "Joan? What are you doing here?"

Her hand reached out and punched his shoulder. "Repaying a debt."

He knew what she meant, but she was wrong. There was no debt between them. He'd simply done the right thing, the gentlemanly thing. When he first met Joan, she'd been one of Charlie's strays, tiny enough that she'd looked little more than a kid, all long limbs and eyes bigger than they should be. Will, who'd benefited from Charlie's generosity himself after he'd been found with no memory along the side of the road, had naturally offered his own room. Yeah, he'd been paying rent by then but you didn't leave little girls sleeping on the couch even if they were older than they looked. The offer and the fact that he'd backed it up by taking the couch himself had done him a good turn. It seemed Millay had liked what he'd done. He'd moved into her room shortly thereafter. "It worked out," was all he said.

There was a glimpse of movement from behind her. "Still, you did right by me and now we're here to do right by you." She stepped aside, revealing a good dozen or more kids, teens and up, darting about on skateboards in front of the hotel.

As he watched three skated on into the lobby. "I don't want to get your friends in trouble."

"Then you need to get where you're going so we can be gone before the cops show up." With that she skated off to join her friends, waving back at him as she glided into the lobby.

Millay's voice sounded through the cell. "Go. Now."

"Right. Thanks."

The skaters gliding and darting about the lobby had created such a chaotic mess – at least to Will's eyes although it couldn't be complete chaos since they didn't crash into each other – that the receptionist didn't seem to even notice Will much less try to stop him. As he rose in the elevator, Will turned his thoughts to the man in room 805. Will could pound on the door all he wanted but would this Harris guy let him in?

The hallway was dead quiet. Will stopped and traced one finger over the numbers. Could Harris tell him whom he'd been? Would he? Only one way to tell. Will rapped his hand against the door. After about a minute there was a thump like that of a head hitting the other side of the door. It came from about head height at least. "Open up," Will said. "Please."

The door opened and Harris was standing there, eyepatch and all, in sweats and a t-shirt. His hair, standing up in untamed patches, suggested Will had woken him. "Get out of Africa, they said. Relocate to LA. It's practically home, they said, as if that made for a compelling argument. Why the hell I listened … Sure Angel's left town but now, suddenly, Spike's here, a Spike who's supposed to be dead but I guess I should have known better because when does anybody stay dead."

Will didn't speak. Harris had called him Spike. Harris did know him. Standing there in the bright lights of the hallway, Will wondered if he shouldn't just turn and run. Harris, there in that dim room, could tell him of his past but what if it wasn't something he wanted to know, what if it was as dark and murky as Harris' room?

Harris gave him a long look-over. "Like the look. Very non-threatening."

Non-threatening? What did that mean?

"I'm not inviting you in."

Will's words, the one he spoke to Millay earlier that evening, came back to him: You have no idea what it's like, not knowing who you are.

"Although I guess that won't necessarily keep you out. I mean, hotels, not covered by that whole need an invitation rule are they?"

"I'm not going away."

Harris rolled his eye toward Heaven as if asking for patience. "You couldn't have come some other time, oh I don't know, possibly high noon when the sun's shining all bright and deadly?"

Was this some type of criminal code? Deadly sunlight? Granted, skin cancer was an issue but that didn't seem to be what Harris meant.

Harris stepped away from the door with a sigh. "Fine, Fangless, come in. You are still fangless, right? Or should I have asked that before the invite?"

Will wasn't sure what Harris was going on about but he wasn't blocking the door so Will went in. It was a typical bland hotel room. The bedding was rumpled, but Will had already figured he'd woken the man.

Harris started in again before Will had worked out what to tell him. "I don't forgive you. I never will. Buffy won't either if that's why you're here. We put up with you because she needed you but that's over and done with. From here on out, we're quits."

"Forgive me?"

"Not happening, pal."

"Why would you need to … What did I do?"

Harris' barking laughter had a bitter bite to it. "You still don't get it, do you? Buffy, bruised and bloody on the bathroom floor. Ring a bell?"

Buffy. Harris had mentioned that name before. He'd said _she_ needed you. She. Will could barely stammer out the words. "I hit a woman?"

"Hit? Try rape."

Harris' words hit him like a punch to the gut. Rape? Will bolted for the door. As he hit the stairwell, he heard Harris call out, something about a mirror, but Will didn't stop to listen.


	9. Reflections

Spike had killed two Slayers. Xander could picture them, well, no, he couldn't because he didn't know the details and yet he could. He'd seen so many dead Slayers, girls new to their calling, Watcherless, alone, outnumbered. Maybe no one got the credit when it was dozens against one. Maybe Spike still had the high-count for Slayer kills. Xander wished the vampire away. The conservative look – pinstripe shirt and khakis – as well as a return to what must be his natural hair color didn't make Spike any less undead. "Like the look. Very non-threatening."

The bastard couldn't even be bothered to snark back.

"I'm not inviting you in." Damn. He should just slam the door shut. He shouldn't have opened it in the first place. Not that a closed door would keep Spike out. Vampire here. Easy enough for him to break it down and then who'd be stuck paying the bill. Not the evil undead, that's for sure.

"I'm not going away."

LA had been promoted as Xander's chance to get away, to leave the deaths behind, as if they could be left behind. LA had been uneviled. There'd been an evil law firm but the portal to its senior partners had been closed, leaving behind, Xander imagined, a law firm that was slightly less evil. All this meant that LA should have been a plum assignment, almost a vacation. It hadn't been and now Spike was here. "You couldn't have come some other time, oh I don't know, possibly high noon when the sun's shining all bright and deadly?"

Knowing he shouldn't, Xander invited the vampire in. It wasn't as if he could keep Spike out. Vampires could walk into hotel rooms. He turned his back and walked into the room first, acting as if Spike weren't a threat but he wasn't nearly so sure. Spike should have been ashes in the wind. He wasn't. What did that mean for the chip? Could Spike kill him now? Xander found it hard to care. Too many Slayers would be alive now if he hadn't been the one sent to save them. Once upon a time Spike had helped save the world. Well, once upon a time was a hell of a long time ago. Xander didn't forget what Spike really was. "I don't forgive you. I never will. Buffy won't either if that's why you're here. We put up with you because she needed you but that's over and done with. From here on out, we're quits."

"Why would you need to … What did I do?"

You killed. Xander wanted to shout the words but that hadn't been Spike, at least not recently, and that wasn't fair. "You still don't get it, do you? Buffy, bruised and bloody on the bathroom floor. Ring a bell?"

"I hit a woman?"

For one wild moment the floor seemed to give way from beneath Xander's feet. Spike didn't get it. Of course he didn't, evil, but how could he not know what he'd done? "Hit? Try rape."

Spike stumbled through the entryway, that narrow hall between the mirrored closet and the bathroom, and landed with a thump against the door. Just for a moment, before Spike darted out of the room, Xander could see two of him: Spike in the room and Spike in the mirror.

"Hey." Xander chased after but Spike was gone. "How did you … mirror … vampires don't reflect …"

Spike had become human? Oh, shit.


	10. Reflections part 2

Xander called Willow. Yeah, maybe Giles or Buffy should be his first call in the case of apocalypsey goodness, but Willow had been his best friend forever. His first call would always be to her.

"This better not be some sort of whimsy."

So his timing kind of sucked. "Uh, Will?"

"I mean it, Mister. If this isn't at least life threatening, I'm hanging up."

"Apocalypse or bootie call?"

"Xander." She spluttered into the phone. "I would not blow you off just for … well, okay, maybe I would, but she's a gymnast. I didn't even know a body could be that bendy."

"Aaaaand I don't want to know. Well, yeah, actually I do but that's not why I called." Gymnast. So she'd given Diego the boot. He couldn't say he was surprised. When Kennedy had worked out that Willow had been doing the naughty with some kind of snakey demoness, well, that fight had made apocalypses look peaceful. Apparently Kennedy wasn't big on second chances. Willow had given up on Kennedy years ago, at least as far as Xander knew, but she'd also given up on long-term white picket fence relationships.

"Nightmares again?"

Nightmares. A corpse left sitting up, looking as if it were still alive. They'd known he was coming. They'd known he'd find the body. A whole family torn to pieces. Grisly bits he couldn't identify. "No." He couldn't wish for a simple nightmare, especially since his nightmares weren't simple, but this … wasn't good. "You remember when you took away Angel's chance to shanshu?"

"I didn't take it away. He voluntarily gave it up."

"Okay, so not the point. Remember how we thought that whole shanshued vampire apocalypse prophecy had been averted?"

"Sure, I mean, if there is no shanshued vampire then demons can't use the shanshued vampire to end the world, because he's, like, not there as in not shashued."

"We forgot about Spike."

There was a long moment of silence before Willow spoke. "Xander, honey? Spike's dead, well deader, dusted."

"That's what I thought until he waltzed into my hotel room. Oh and guess what. I saw his reflection."

"Xander, are you saying Spike's human?"

"Looks like."

"Oh, by Ishtar's round firm tits."

"That's what I said," Xander replied, "but with less tits."


	11. Last Night

There was a phone, its receiver heavy in her hand. Willow placed it down on the phone carefully, very gently, as she stared through the window. Water roiled in the river below her, turgid under the drab morning light. Allegheny, Monongahela, or Ohio. There were three rivers but she could only see one. She never could tell them apart.

"By whose round firm tits? Should I be jealous?"

Willow turned back to the room, combination bedroom and living space like pretty much any hotel room she'd ever been in. She turned back to the bed and to the woman on it. Dianne, her name was Dianne, from the Cabaret at Theater Square. The coven's Seer had insisted Willow use the ticket, saying something about needing to relax. Willow had relaxed all right, into skin as warm as a Caffè Mocha and lips as sweet as sin. "Ishtar. She's a Babylonian goddess, so no jealousy required. It's unlikely I'll ever meet her."

Although given the way Willow's life went, who was to say whom Willow would or wouldn't meet? But she wasn't going to meet anyone if the whole world went boom.

"Spike's human? What was he before?"

Why'd she always pick smart ones? Oh, wait, she knew that, because the dumb ones didn't figure out the wham, bam, thank you ma'am until Willow was just this side of scarping out the door. "You aren't upset I said you're a gymnast?"

Dianne rose from the bed, wrapped her arms around Willow and there was skin, warm, and brushing against skin, and her lips were still as sweet. The kiss lasted for only a moment but Dianne pulled only an fraction of an inch away. "Granted that was back in high-school and I am wondering how young, innocent perhaps, your friend thinks I am, but why do you think I kept up with it, yoga instructor by day and contortionist by night?"

"Because it's a crowd pleaser?"

Dianne grinned, brushing her lips against Willow lightly. It felt like feathers brushing against feathers. "That it is and you're quite a crowd to please."

Oh Goddess, Willow wanted nothing more than to drown in those soft touches but, well, Spike was human.

"You're not coming back to bed, are you?"

Willow glanced at the clock. It wasn't quite nine but that meant she'd already missed at least a couple of flights out. "I wish I didn't, but I do have to go."

"Because Spike's human."

Willow stepped out of the embrace. "You probably shouldn't think too hard about that."

"You're not coming back, here I mean, to me." It wasn't a question. It was a statement.

Willow froze. "I …" I thought you knew. Last night, I thought you'd realized. "I might. Something might draw me back. I mean, I did come here in the first place." Pittsburgh had one of the most active and powerful covens in the U. S. She might need their help again. If Xander was right about Spike, she might need them soon.

Dianne grinned but it was a sad, lopsided smile. "I know. And after Bre … after my-ex I sure as hell am not ready for long-term but something about you makes me wish I was ready."

"I, uh." Willow ducked her head. "Thank you." She couldn't say it back. As much as she'd enjoyed last night, it wasn't true and when you used magic it was pretty important to stick to the truth.

Dianne's hand under her chin raised Willow's head until they were face to face. "Right, I just wanted to let you know …" Her lips against Willow's were as sweet as they had been the night before. "So, go on then. Spike's human. Might be important."

An image of Hell come to Earth flashed through Willow's mind. Dianne was lucky she had no idea how important it might be.


	12. Saturday in the Park

If she hadn't been an atheist, Millay would have been thanking someone that Will was such a Luddite. Otherwise he'd have thought to drop the tech as he'd run off. It had let her listen in, but it also let her track him to this park. No, Will would never call this a park. In fact, he'd ranted on for hours, more than once, on how a few plants surrounded by concrete did not, as he put it, a park make. She stopped at the far edge of the space, where the street gave way to concrete, flipped her skateboard up to her hand, and watched him. He'd stretched himself out along the edge of a fountain. There was no water, not this early in the morning. He turned his head away as she walked up. She sat down and rested one hand near his shoulder, close but not touching. "I could mess with Harris' finances. Sell him 200,000 shares in a spoo ranch."

"You should go. 'M not safe."

Shit. He'd believed the bastard. Of course he had, Will was always too sensitive to the opinions of others. She figured it was the amnesia. Lacking a past, he looked to others to tell him who he was. "That's bullshit, Will. You, a rapist? No way. No way."

He sat up but looked like he was about to bolt. She tightened her grip on his hand. "He's lying," she added.

"He wouldn't lie."

"How would you know …" She almost dropped his hand. "You remember him?"

Will jerked as if she'd struck him. His breathing was heavy and Millay waited for him to speak. "No way for him to know about the amnesia."

Oh, good point. "I still don't believe it. I know you, Will. You're no rapist."

"You know me now. Didn't know me then."

Millay could feel herself trying to will her belief in him through their joined hands, which was ridiculous. Speech was convincing; good vibes were nothing more than balderdash. "Personalities don't change with memory loss. Look at Alzheimer's patients. The ones who were nice before, stay nice. The ones who were curmudgeons, stay nasty."

"Doesn't matter. I did it. I hurt the girl."

"I don't believe it. You're the gentlest man I know."

His laughter was dark, bitter. "Yeah, well, things change."

_I hurt the girl_? This wasn't just what Harris had told him. "You do remember. What? What do you remember?" He sat there, staring at nothing, not speaking. She yanked at his hand. "Tell me."

"I can see her." His words were quiet, trance-like. She figured it might be the only way he could share whatever he was seeing. Millay sat perfectly still, listening but not speaking, waiting for him to go on. "That Buffy he spoke of. She's young. Little more than a kid. There's a bottle. It's in my hand. I'm waving the broken glass, jagged, sharp, it's right in her face."

"You cut her?"

The spell between them broke. She could see Will pulling into himself. "I don't see that. The bottle's going toward her face, but I don't see blood. Harris was there too, laid out on a table or something. Looked dead."

"Do you remember raping her?"

Will shook his head. "No, just those two bits: me jabbing the broken glass in her face and seeing Harris stretched out."

"You didn't rape her."

"How do you know?"

"Harris said tried to."

"Yeah, 'cause that's so much better."

"Will, whatever you're seeing, that isn't you. The memory plays tricks. It doesn't record what happened. It's a mix, an image from here, another from there, some real, some imagined. You can't trust a few random images."

"If I can't trust my own mind, what can I trust? Scratch that. I've never been able to trust my own mind. Don't recall anything from more than six years ago. Maybe now I know why. Maybe I don't want to remember." He stood and yanked his hand out of hers.

"Will."

"I need some space Millay."

"Where will you go?"

He shrugged. "Don't know."

She stood. "Not good enough."

"Millay …"

"I don't want you alone. You don't have to stick with me, but you have to be with someone."

"Fine," he sighed. "What about Ash? She can give me one of those knockout pills of hers."

"And after?"

"I've got work. Even rapists need to pay bills."

"Will, you're not a …"

"Drop it, Millay."

She thought about the tracker he was carrying. Not good enough. If he thought about how she'd found him, he'd dump the tech. "Okay, but I'm escorting you to Ash's." He started to object. "No arguing."

Will turned and started walking. "Let's go then."

As they left the park behind them, Millay heard the fountain start up. She didn't turn to look.


	13. Missing

Millay wanted to speed up as she passed the muted green of the house next to Ash's apartment. It wasn't that the house was ugly, although it was. She didn't think Will should be on his own. Ash didn't have the whole story or even most of it really, which would be why Will wanted her rather than Millay as he worked his head around what Harris had told him. What the hell had that bastard been thinking? She slowed down, double parking in the street outside the four story building. "No place to park. I'll have to drive around."

"Just drop me off."

She almost jumped out of her seat when Will spoke. His silence had hung heavily between them ever since he'd agreed to let her drive him to Ash's. "I'm not sure that's a good idea."

"I'll go up. Promise." Millay didn't reply. "Look," he added. "I'll even wave to you from the window so you'll know I made it there safe and sound."

It was the best she was going to get and she knew it. Hell, she was grateful he hadn't jumped out of the car on the drive over. "Okay."

He didn't tell her he'd be fine. He didn't say anything else at all. Nor did he look at her. He did stand outside the security door, flanked by red and yellow bricks, until Ash, or someone else, let him in. Millay sat there, with her blinkers going to signal she was double parked, until she saw him waving from Ash's window.

Millay knew she should go home. She'd been up all night and Will would be fine. Ash would keep an eye on him. Something made her stay. She found a parking spot just a block away, over on Carroll Ave., and thought about walking to the lake but couldn't get up the energy to move. She could wait and call after Ash's pills had knocked Will out. But when Will woke up, he'd know she'd filled Ash in. Will might be naive in a lot of ways but you couldn't keep secrets from him. He picked up on them right away. She should have gone up with him, but he hadn't wanted her. He'd been through a shock. She shouldn't add to his troubles. Fine. Coffee she could find. She'd give it an hour and then call Ash. He should be out of it by then and maybe he wouldn't realize she'd been checking up on him. No, he'd definitely figure that out, but maybe by the time he woke up he'd have calmed down enough to be okay with it.

Before getting up to hunt for coffee, Millay took one more look at the tracker's screen. Will's signal was gone. Shit, she should have known she'd lose the signal. Will must have finally figured out the listening device also held a tracker, but why would he have destroyed it if he were still at Ash's?

The heavy thud of the car door slamming shut was nothing next to the pounding in her chest. Taking the sidewalk would mean running past three houses on this street, where the yards were bigger, and even more on Calumet Ave. Without even considering it, Millay cut straight through someone's yard, dashing under the trees and noting in passing that the driveway was empty. The house behind was surrounded by a fence but the one next to that was open. The yard between was so narrow that no sunlight reached down to Millay until she'd passed onto the sidewalk where she had to stop and shield her eyes against the light before crossing the street. She punched at the buzzer. "Come on, come on."

"Yeah?"

"Ash, it's Millay. Let me in."

The wooden floor of the hall had been stained a garishly artificial red. Millay dashed for the stairs, taking the purple carpeted steps two at a time until she was at Ash's floor. "Where is he?" In any other home the green not-quite-velvet of the couch and the floral pattern of the chairs would have looked retro but under Ash's care they seemed somehow normal. Millay looked past them to the white and red of the dining area's table and chairs. There was no sign of Will. She dodged around to the bedroom, just barely large enough for a twin bed and dresser. Still no Will.

"Millay." Ash sounded shocked. Too bad.

"Where'd Will go?"

"He left."

Millay thought about grabbing Ash and slamming her up against the wall. That probably only worked in movies. "You let him leave?"

"Let come into it. He wanted to leave and he left."

Fuck, she should never have let Will come up here on his own.

"What's going on?"

"What'd he do with the tracker?"

As Ash blinked, her dark eyes grew wider against her pale skin. "You were tracking him?" She paused for a moment, wringing her hands together. "Are you tracking him now?"

"If I could track him now, I'd know where he was."

"Are you sure the GPS isn't working?"

Millay handed over the screen and Ash, still now as she held it in both hands, stared down at the empty screen.

"Did he say where he was going?"

"I'm not sure. Something about one of his skater friends maybe?"

Shit, he could be anywhere. Millay took a deep breath. Joan could hook up with the skaters.

"Tell me what's up," Ash demanded.

"No time. Look, he's in a bad headspace. We need to find him, sooner rather than later."

Ash leaned into the wall as if searching for support. "I should have know when, well, he wouldn't talk about that guy, the one he'd gone looking for, the one who knew him."

The one who'd told Will he was a rapist. The one Will had believed.


	14. Rescue

Angel had been taken and, even though it'd been less than a day, it seemed to Buffy as if the sun had vanished with him. The shadows had deepened as if the light wasn't strong enough to hold the dark back. The trees that had been full of buds – just yesterday, hadn't it been – now raised stark branches to a dreary sky, branches that held tightly to their few desiccated leaves as if those tiny bits of unlife could survive the ravages of winter.

Angel had been taken and so it seemed appropriate that they'd left the gloomy evening for Rome's underground tombs. Catacombs were meant to be dark. That thought didn't make the darkness any more comfortable as a dozen small flashlights – attached to baseball caps to keep hands free – did little to push back the darkness. Buffy wasn't leading the way; Sophia was. Just because Sophia was local, everyone believed her when she said she knew the catacombs. It wasn't like Buffy knew the electrical tunnels back in Sunnydale. Okay, bad example. Since she couldn't head the line, Buffy took the rear. These tunnels were too small for two Slayers to fight side-by-side. If they were attacked from the back, Buffy wanted to be the one to handle it.

"Should it be this cold down here?" Buffy wanted to smack the Slayer who's spoken but the girl was four up from her.

"Shh. We don't want to give our presence away." And now Wes was speaking although he'd at least whispered. Buffy hadn't wanted to bring the Watcher along, but he'd insisted. Something about him needing to question a demon and that she'd kill them all if he wasn't there to stop her. She could so restrain herself, if she needed to.

"I was just wondering," the girl continued but at least whispering now, "if the cold was coming from the demons, a sign that we were close."

Buffy smacked the Slayer ahead of her. "Pass it down and tell her to shut up." The Slayer, the one who'd spoken, glared back and rubbed her head but didn't say anything else.

The walls seemed to press in on them, narrowing as they moved through. It felt as if they'd been entombed. Buffy could picture rocks crashing down on either end, trapping them. She could feel herself panting, her breath shallow and fast, but she couldn't seem to stop it. She reached out her left hand, the one that wasn't holding the Scythe, and brushed it against the heavy stone, feeling how far away the walls were. Her breathing calmed but Buffy couldn't shake a sense of dread.

When the stone gave way to something else, she felt it before she saw it. The texture was softer than stone but the new surface wasn't as flat as stone. There was some sort of pattern. When she turned her head, and thereby her flashlight, toward the wall, she was expecting the skull before she saw it. Rows of skulls ran horizontal to the floor with leg bones rising between each row. Buffy turned away, focusing on the end of the corridor. This had to be a sign they were close. Watching from the rear, she saw the other Slayers jump as they each in turn noticed the bones. Wes didn't jump though. He eyed them calmly and kept moving. Maybe he'd been expecting the bones. He could have said.

Buffy heard the end of the catacombs before she saw it. There was chanting up ahead. And growls. Chanting and growls. Had to be the place. It was big, football stadium big, with Angel at the other end, chained to the wall. The ceiling arched overhead three stories high. Demons lined the edge of each level but there weren't that many on the floor, or at least not yet.

Buffy gripped the Scythe in both hands. "Lois, Janet, you two protect Wes. The rest of you, clear the road. We're getting Angel back."

The demons weren't tall but they were wide, as wide as two Slayers across. With their gray hide and tusks, they looked like rhinos, ones that ran on two legs and had clawed hands and spiked tails. The demons snorted as they charged, building up steam, moving faster and faster. The lead demon reached out to claw Sophia. She stepped to one side and swung her blade across his torso. Guts spilling, he continued to charge, heading straight for … "Lois, get Wes out of there."

Too late. The demon had dropped but Wes had gone flying across the floor. "On it," Janet called out. The two Slayers moved off the protect Wes, leaving the group. Shit, Buffy cursed. Shit, shit, shit. Shouldn't have brought Wes.

Three more demons were moving in. "Cut them," Sophia shouted out. "You can't stop them. They have too much momentum. Slice and dice and get out of the way." She was right. Three Slayers sliced. They all kept out of the way. Three demons went down.

Janet and Lisa ran up with Wes. He looked a bit wobbly. "You alright?"

"I assure you, I will survive the evening's entertainment."

Okay, that didn't make much sense but, then again, it was Wes. "Good." They might just make it through this.

"Uh, ma'am?"

She turned on the Slayer. "I told you, call me Buffy." The girl wasn't looking at her. Buffy followed her line of sight, turning and looking up to see a demon jumping from the third level right down to the floor. It was completely and utterly unharmed. Buffy scanned the three levels. Hundreds of demons. Maybe more. Oh, great. "Slice and dice, people. Let's go."

A demon charged and Buffy sliced. She widened her focus, watching everything, her Slayers, the demons they were fighting. When Lois' slash sent a demon charging her way, she sidestepped, slashing it herself as the demon charged past. They moved, foot by agonizing foot, toward the far end of the crypt. Angel was still alive. She could see him, in the momentary breaks between fighting. She wasn't sure why he was still alive. Wes had said something about a ritual. Maybe they needed Angel alive for that.

Where was Wes? As another demon charged, she sliced, turning 360-degrees, spotting Wes behind and to the left. Lois and Janet were close to him but not too close, making sure he didn't get killed but allowing him to fight as well. Knowing she couldn't have handled it better herself, Buffy turned back to the fight.

When they were thirty feet from the far wall, Buffy dashed through the charging demons, running onto the one closest to Angel, leaping up off of him and flying at the wall, cutting Angel's chains before slamming into the bones on the wall. As she fell to the floor next to Angel, the chains landed with a resounding crash. "Don't suppose you've got a weapon for me," Angel asked.

"Sword."

Angel held out his two arms, rattling a foot of chain down from each. "Need these gone." He stretched his two arms out, one next to the other, against the wall. As Buffy started to line up the Scythe, he added, "Watch out for my arms. Kind of need them."

The Scythe swung, cutting the chains off inches below his arm. "No sweat," she replied.

A growling came from behind them. Buffy swung the Scythe as she turned, chopping off claws. She turned her back to Angel. "Sword. Now."

He grabbed it from the sheathe and stuck it into the demon. "Nice. Good weight."

"Only the best, but we've found that slicing works better than stabing against these guys."

"Slicing. Right. Got it."

Buffy's cell rang. "Hello?"

"Buffy?"

"Xander? What's up?"

"Is it a bad time? I'm calling at a bad time, aren't I?"

Three demons broke off from the group attacking the Slayers, growling as they turned toward her and Angel. "I'm a bit busy. Can it wait?"

"It's sort of apocalyptic."

"Oh, in that case, let me put you on speakerphone."

"You are busy," Xander said.

"Wait just one sec." The wall behind her was full of bones, skulls interlaced with bony hands. Buffy settled her cellphone into one of the hands. "Hang onto this for me, will ya?" She turned to scan the room. "Okay, Xander, all set but you should probably speak up."

Two of the demons started charging. Angel leaped forward, spinning as his sword slashed the first demon's hide.

Xander's voice sounded tinny coming from the cell. "It's about Spike."

Before Angel could complete his turn, the second demon's tail lashed out. "Angel," Buffy called out as the barbs slashed into his leg.

Angel winced as he hit the floor but his sword slammed down onto the demon's tail. "Spike's back?" he called out as the demon's blood spilled onto the floor.

As the demon turned, its claws raking out toward Angel, Buffy ran over. "How is Spike apocalyticy?"

"I saw him … and his reflection."

Angel's leg gave out sending him crashing to the ground. "Angel," Buffy cried, "you said you were okay!"

"Spike shanshued?" he asked.

"Looks like."

"What'd he say?" Buffy asked.

The third demon charged at Angel. Buffy stepped forward, slashed, and sent him careening off toward the wall. "He kind of ran off," Xander said before the demon smashed into the wall sending bones and Buffy's cell crashing to the floor.

"Hey," she shouted as she rounded on the demon. "I had pictures on that phone." It wasn't moving but she chopped the Scythe down through its neck just the same.

Buffy scanned the crypt. Slayers outnumbered the remaining demons two-to-one. Wes was shouting something at them but didn't seem to be harmed so Buffy helped Angel up, shouldering his weight to get him to his feet. "So," he said, "Spike shanshued."

"What do you care? You gave it up so you'd be a more helpful sidekick. Good job with that, by the way, getting your leg nearly slashed off and all."

"Me? I'm not the one who's the sidekick."

"I know you don't mean me," Buffy growled.

"I took out two demons to your one."

"Two? Hey, I killed that second one. You just pissed it off. And anyway, I had to answer the phone."

Angel shifted to stand on both legs and winced. "And when I ran the evil law firm, my secretary answered the phone."

"Harmony? You're comparing me to Harmony?"

"Well, uh."

A demon charged past the Slayers, making for a side door. Buffy charged after.

"No," Wes' voice called out. "Buffy don't …"

The Scythe tore straight through its head.

" … kill it."

As she turned, Buffy saw that Wes' head was tilted down, resting in his hands. "Huh?"

Wes lifted his head back up with a sigh. "The final demon. We wanted to interrogate it."

Oh. Yeah. "Ooops?"

"Interrogate?" Angel asked, limping over.

"Yeah," Buffy said. "Wes here has a theory that these demons wanted you special."

"Wanted me? That doesn't sound good. What for?"

"That's what I was hoping to determine," Wes said.

"No biggie. I know someone we can ask."

"Buffy," Angel said. "No."

"You can stay home, you big baby."

"You're not going in alone."

"And?" Buffy asked.

"He just gives me the willies."


	15. Destiny No Escaping, Not For Me

Will rested against the wall with his fingers interlaced behind his head and his legs stretched out before him. He felt remarkably calm considering he was shackled to the wall. When he'd woken, still groggy from Ash's sleepy pills, he'd remembered a story Morgan had told him, something about a guy who'd taken LSD and ended up on some farm, stark naked, claiming to be Jesus Christ. Will had crashed at Ash's apartment and woken in a cell so narrow he couldn't even stretch his arms out without hitting a wall. He'd have thought he was hallucinating, like that guy Morgan had mentioned, except for one tiny and inconvenient detail. Ash hadn't given him LSD.

He'd done his shouting but that was behind him now. There was a chain shackling his ankle to the wall, its metal was dark and heavy, rough rather than smooth as if modern smelting techniques hadn't gone into its making. There was something almost medieval about it, about the whole setup. The walls, surrounding him on three sides, seemed to have been carved out of living stone. The fourth wasn't a wall at all but prison bars stretching the length of the cell, which seemed a bit redundant since the chain wouldn't let him get that far. Past the bars, on the wall behind, a sconce held a flaming torch. It should have seemed outlandish or at least a bit strange, but Will felt strangely comfortable, almost as if this were normal for him.

The flames started bucking wildly, as if blown by a heavy wind, but Will, at the far end of the cell, couldn't feel even a breath of moving air. When the flames settled back to relative stillness, a figure, its body masked by a dark robe, stood on the other side of the bars. The cloth, its roughness suggesting tree bark, revealed only a face and a pair of pale arms, so thin they seemed little more than lean branches. A face, feminine rather than masculine, a perfect oval, pale against the shadows under the robe's hood, seemed to float as if detached from a body.

"Spike." Her voice echoed as if it were reaching up from the bottom of a deep well. "Tonight you face your wyrd."

Yeah, this was weird alright. He didn't ask. He knew, without knowing how he knew, that if he wanted to live out the night he had to convince this – witch? woman? – that he wasn't Spike. "Don't know whom you mean. Name's William." He didn't bother telling her it was Will to his friends.

"Do not try to deceive us, Spike. We know your memories have returned," she said in that deep echoing voice.

As if her words had conjured the images, he saw, once again, Xander laid out as if dead on a table and the red-head, Buffy, crying as he jabbed at her with a bottle. "Don't know what you mean." He forced into his voice a casualness that he didn't feel.

She stared long and hard as if trying to read him. Well, two could play at that game. He stared back, looking just a bit above her shoulder rather than at that disturbing visage. In a flash, she dropped to the floor and scattered stones before her. She peered at them, staring just as she'd been staring at him not a moment earlier. He stood to see what she was seeing. There seemed to be markings, black against the gray stones, but he couldn't make them out. He could hear her muttering, but the echoing words didn't make any sense. "Isa blocking Perdhro." Her head jerked up, as quickly as that of a hawk spotting its prey, and he froze under that gaze. With a sweep of her hand, she gathered the stones into a small bag. She shouted as she rose to her feet, "A'handru."

A woman stepped into view, donned in the same type of robe but hoodless, revealing the face. In that flickering light, he recognized the dark pixie haircut before he knew the face. "Ash," he shouted. "Ash, run. Get out."

"A'handru," the woman said again and Ash nodded in response. What the hell was this?

"A'handru, you told us the Shanshu had regained his memory."

"He has," Ash replied. "He told me he remembered the Slayer."

The woman's hand reached out and slapped across Ash's cheek. "He recalls no Slayer. Tell me his words."

"I met with Xander," Ash said, parroting his words. "Harris, that is. When I met him I remembered, I'd known him before, him and this girl, Buffy."

"Foolish child. His memories are too few. You should have dug deeper. For this error, you shall face the dr'grasith."

Ash' face seemed to pale as she dropped to her knees. "I apologize for my most egregious error. I was afraid his old friends would take him away, that we would lose our chance."

She'd asked for more details, back in the apartment, but he hadn't wanted to talk. "Just give me a couple of pills," he'd told her. "I need the sleep."

"Take her to the dr'grasith." The woman waved her hand and three others, also hooded, stepped out of the shadows, surrounding Ash.

"No, sister." Another, twin to the first from what Will could see, stepped into the light.

"Urdror," the first woman said. Urdror? Was that a name?

"No, V'ranti. The others search for him. We may need A'handru. She may still serve to lead them astray."

The first woman, V'ranti, waved her hand in dismissal and the three figures surrounding Ash stepped away. "S'kutul," V'ranti called out. "What instructions do we have for our instrument?"

Another woman, identical to the first two, appeared. Triplets? "The one he remembers."

"Buffy?" V'ranti asked.

"Not Buffy," Urdror replied. "His memory misleads him there."

"The witch," S'kutul added. "The witch is the key. She will restore his memory and then he will face his wyrd."

"Hey," Will called out. "What's this wyrd you keep going on about?"

"Destiny, but stronger," Ash replied.

Destiny. Destiny. No escaping, not for me, echoed in Will's thoughts, the humor of that scene a stark contrast to the place he found himself.

Urdror turned and slapped Ash. "You do not speak to the Shanshu. Fail us again and you will be food for the great worm."

Ash bowed and did not speak again.

Destiny. Wyrd. That didn't sound too bad. On the other hand, the people deciding his destiny were the kind to casually talk of feeding people to worms. He didn't think he'd like their idea of his destiny.


	16. Two For the Price of One

About a half-dozen of Buffy's Slayers had vanished into the catacombs that lined the crypt. It wasn't until Babs burst back out, shouting for Wes, that Buffy realized nobody had told them to be not telley around Angel. "Angel! You're hurt," Buffy exclaimed. "We should get you back to HQ and get you checked out."

"I'm fine." He was staring at the artifact – glass or at least clear and star shaped but with more than five points – that Babs was handing over to Wes. Okay, deep breath. Maybe it was part of the reason the demons had taken Angel.

"Ah, yes," Wes said. "Good eye, Barbara."

"I thought Mr. Theroux," Barb replied.

"Yes, yes," Wes said absently. "It's certainly rare enough that he'd want it for his collection."

Or maybe the artifact had nothing to do with Angel. She should have bonked Wes on the head rather than wasting her time trying to drag Angel away.

"What's going on?" Angel asked.

Wes' mouth opened but nothing came out. Only a Watcher could be so distracted by an artifact that he'd forget Angel was standing right there. Damn. She'd known better than to bring Wes. "It's part of why the demons brought you here." She could at least try to get Angel off the scent. "This Throw guy, well he's kind of an expert on how pointy bracelets are used in rituals." Pointy bracelets? Really? It was kind of bracelet sized and would look cool with her …

"You're selling it," Angel said.

Shit.

"You're taking demonic artifacts and selling them."

"I, well, ah." Wes was no help.

Babs stepped away, moving as she spoke. "I'll just get back to my …" She pointed toward the catacomb she'd run out of. At least she had enough sense to not spill the beans, even though they'd already been spilled so it was more like she wasn't adding to the spillage but at least she knew when to go away.

Angel turned on Buffy before she had a chance to tear into Wes, not that she was about to with Angel standing right there. "You said you didn't need funding. I had all those Wolfram & Hart accounts sitting there, ripe for the plucking, and you told me that you had the money under control."

She could have had something prepared. She'd known he'd figure it out someday. She could have been ready for this. She wasn't.

"You lied to me about money? You lied to me?" You lied to me about money was bad enough but that plaintive quiver in his voice when he'd said you lied to me? He was going into that broody place, the one that not even ice cream could break him out of, not that Angel was ever big on ice cream.

"Not lied so much as …" No, they had lied but they'd had a good reason. "That was evil law-firm money."

"You won't take my firm's money, but you will steal from random demons?"

"We defeated these demons. There are spoils or money spoiling if you let it sit too long or, um, something." She let her sentence run down at the end. That money spoiling concept couldn't be right.

"We defeated Wolfram & Hart." Right. That. And this is why she'd kept it from Angel. Because it made sense when you said it that way but it had also made sense when Wes had said to leave the lawyer money alone.

"I advised her against accepting access to the Wolfram & Hart accounts." Thank you Wes for finally jumping into the fray.

"You advised her?" Good, let Wes deal with Angel's wrath. Wes, at least, didn't have to worry about dog houses and sleeping in his own bed privileges being revoked. Not that Angel could kick her out of her own bed, but she liked it when he was there with her.

"Yes," Wes said. "We'd been affiliated with Wolfram & Hart. If we took their money as we left, a case could have been made that we were continuing our employment, and that might have given the Senior Partners access to this dimension."

"Let me get this straight. First Spike shanshues and now you lie to me."

"Technically we lied first." Oh, right. So not the point to make.

"Spike did what?"

Okay. Who knew that Wes' glare could be that intense. "Spike shansued." Before Wes could start in on her, Buffy blurted out, "Not hiding anything from you. We just found out. Xander callage. During the fight."

"Oh dear." Buffy glanced at Angel who looked as worried as she felt. "Sophia," Wes called out. "Do we have any indications what these demons wanted Angel for?"

Sophia ran over. "We found this." This had an outer circle, about an inch wide, and squiggly lines – lightning bolts maybe? – running down to an inner circle that surrounded a cross.

Wes stared down at the object. "Oh dear," he said again.

"Oh dear what?" Buffy asked. "Oh dear they almost killed him? Oh dear they almost opened a Hellmouth? Oh dear they almost transported us to a world without shrimp?:

Wes raised his head and caught Angel's gaze, "Oh dear they almost shanshued him."

"Shanshu?" Shit, Angel sounded like he wanted it. They'd talked about it. Angel was perfectly okay with not becoming human again. Why would he sound like he wanted it?

Buffy jumped in. "But Spike's already shanshued." Okay, and that wasn't the best thing to remind Angel of. "One shanshued vampire per apocalypty ritual, right? Why would they need another?"

"It's possible they didn't know Spike had shanshued." For a moment, Wes looked as if he'd bitten into a lemon. Whatever he'd just thought, it was worse than the demons not knowing Spike had shanshued. "Or it could be two sets of demons, each intent on their own apocalypse."

"What? Two apocalypses? No. Bad. Not two apocalypses. One is bad enough."

"What can we do?" Angel asked.

"We'll need to secure Spike immediately."

"Willow's there," Buffy said. "And Xander. Willow and Xander. They can handle it, right?"

"I'm afraid not. We need to be in L. A. ourselves, as quickly as possible."

Oh, great. Spike being all big with the googly eyes. Angel being all jealous. And an apocalypse. At least it wasn't two apocalypses.


End file.
